The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1887-09-11
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER II, 1887


wild eyes ON mine. moment of sicken-
ing, horrible despair and, with cry, | fell
over on the floor ! was not unconscious,
/ but paralyzed with horror and could not
| speak. l knew that he lifted me and laid
me ON a sofa, and hathed my face and
hands, How | shrank from his touch! A
murderer. @, God! Why did l not let
him keep his guilty secret! Better far the
| old agony than this!
Jeffrey" his voice, unlike had ever
heard it, full of love, and remorse, and en-
| treaty made me weep.
But put my hands before my eyes that
| might not see his face-a murderers facet
bending over me. He knelt down and
hid his face on my breast. | tried TO shake
him from me, but he took my hands and
held them.
Il knew it, l knew you would loathe
me. Great heavens, Is this retributions
that, at the moment learn that l love my
| son, my only son, | see him shudder and
| cover away from mel deserve It'll But
let me tell you how 1t was. | did not strike
| him dead before me. 1t would have been
| kinder. | took a more cruel revenge. l
| rushed out and said there was mailman in
the house. An officer came in and said he
would take him to prison. The victim re-
sisted, and shouted aloud, but was over
! powered, / went with them to the prison.
But even my heart relented when | saw the
horrible, dark, Shiny dungeon where no hui
man being could livea week. told the officer
that would find a more comfortable place
of confinement, as he was my friend, and
they believed me- The room in which he
dragged out five miserable years was as
roomy and comfortable as any IN the
house, but detached from the others. You
saw me there yesterday | cannot keep
away from it. | sit there for hours and
try to wonder what his thoughts were-if
he cursed me in his heart in that slow
agony of tortured He never did with his
| lips. He was mad, sure enough, when he
| had been there year. He saw no one but
me, took him his food which was often
untasted for days, and | kept my secret
| on understand that, by slow degrees, /
killed him. would have released him after
his mind was gone, but remorse had begun
its work, and dared not consign him to the
miserable prison. had destroyed his rea-
son, and was not quite vile enough to
| finish the black work / was too cowardly to
acknowledge His mother, who was his
only near relative died short time after
his Imprisonment so there was no account
| to give to his family. Your mother heard
that he had lost his mind and had been con-
veyed from the city by his friends to es-
cape the prison. He died in that room 1t
was his ghost you saw, and no dream! |
took bis body myself in the dead of night to
His voice had sank to a hoarse whisper
| There was an awful pause. He still knelt
| by my sofa. AS if the memory of that
| fearful night was too much for him, he
crouched down shudderingly, and deep
| groan burst from him
| Could this be my proud father2 The man
| who maintained such rigid self-control at
| all times The man who was yet courted
and flattered in the literary circles of
| Venice; the polished, brilliant man of the
world, here--on his knees at my feet
| bowed down with remorse and shame
How many things that | had never I'M
| derstood seemed plain to me in the light of
his awful dsclosure How far more than
| ever dreamed must my mother have suf-
| feredl | could understand now why, for so
many years, he never left Venice. What
marvellous powers of endurance he pos
sessed to have kept up his pride and
! strength with that dark deed on his soul
| But could not speak to him. / felt a
| wild desire to rush from the sin-shadowed
| house; to run away and hide myself where
| this terrible black shame and misery might
| never reach me!
His next words made me forget myself in
| pity for him.
"Ths lonely place-this miserable house
have wild attraction for me. | could no
more resist the impulse that brought me
| back here when / had made up my mind TO
| die in my native land than can explain the
| strange desire 1t was on me wherever
went 1t can be but one thing-the finger
of destiny pointing me to the doom | have
dreaded for years-to die by my own hands
| | was very near it last night when you
! came, and you saved me from myselfp
| A deep shuddering sigh broke from him.
| while a wild look Of terror shot into his
| face.
think my mothers great love for him
must have revived in the heart of her child
at this moment. The horror and loathing
| were all swept from me in great rush of
pity and love- On my knees by his side |
| gathered the sunken head in my arms. |
| cried over him. and whispered broken
words of love- / was alarmed at the storm
of grief that my tenderness aroused, the
pent-up agony of years of lonely remorse
and pride bursting from his soul at the first
softening touch of love! Great sobs shook
him from head to foot.
When proud man once humbles himself,
the task of gaining his love and confidence
! is comparatively easy. | never knew what
said to my father, but am sure strength
not my own was lent me, for he soon grew
quiet.
The shock bad been too much for me.
Weeks of fever and deirium followed during
which time only knew that an anxious face
watched me with tenderness, and when ]
was better the same lace looked calfner
than ] had ever seen it.
When | recovered | tried to win him from
his purpose of spending his remaining days
in Venice. knew that the horrible temp
tation TO self-destruction would be so strong
in no other place. But he was firm. He
said he had no right to be gathered to his
fathers in the land of his birth, since he had
brought dishonor on the old name. He
begged that there should be no funeral
when he should die. He particularly en-
Joined that an old servant should take his
body late at night, in certain black boat
q knew why he said that one) and lower it
into the water He did not live long. He
loved the pomp and ceremony of the Church
of Rome, and had its Offices in his dying
moments think he made deep and bitter
atonement. May Christ have mercy on his
soul
never have heard the solemn Miserere
since they chanted it around his dying bed
that the scene has not come back to me,
with pitiful yearnng for the lonely boy
who sat apart and wept, and had no share
in the mournful rites His father had told
his secret and his reason for wishing no fu-
neral to the priest so they let me have the